


A Brother's Love

by dark_def (dedicatedfollower467)



Series: Smells Like Belonging [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Like Don't Read, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Underage, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Hurt No Comfort, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Second Person, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Parent/Child Incest, Scent Marking, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest, Victim Blaming, dave is literally 10 in this fic, like serious super-duper major panic attacks, this is hells of fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dark_def
Summary: All Dave wants is to be scent-marked by his Bro, to feel secure in the knowledge that he is part of Bro's pack, that they belong with each other. When he's got his brother's Alpha scent on his skin, he feels safe.But Dave is a fuck-up and a disappointment, and he's honestly lucky that his Bro puts up with his bullshit.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dave Strider
Series: Smells Like Belonging [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592716
Comments: 27
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever just sometimes have a desire to write a REALLY fucked up fic with an extremely dark premise?
> 
> this is really different from my usual fare, so uh. i made a new pseud for it. after chapter one it's pretty much unrelentingly awful. read the tags, folks. like, seriously. this is some dark, dark shit.
> 
> you have officially been warned.

Strifing with Bro is as brutal and difficult as it always is, and today it’s even worse, because for some inexplicable reason you’re totally distracted. You can’t seem to concentrate on the very real threat of his sword swinging down, can’t focus on his movements. More than once you almost drop your sword, and only reflex keeps your hands tight around the grip.

It’s his scent that’s got you so off-balance, you decide, though you don’t know why it’s so bad today compared to any other day.

Bro is an Alpha and he smells like it; like new leather and motor oil and menthol cigarettes. It’s a smell that’s followed you through your whole childhood, that smells like _home_ , smells like _belonging_ , because Bro is part of your pack, is the _only_ member of the only pack you belong to, and he’s been spreading his scent on your skin for all ten of the years you’ve been alive. Claiming you as family, even as you claim him with your milky immature pre-presentation scent.

Maybe that’s why you’re so distracted right now, you think, even as a jarring blow shudders up your arms and into your shoulders, making you grit your teeth harder. It’s been a little while since you last marked each other - about a week and a half - and maybe you’re jittery because you feel like the stability of your pack is threatened. Rose did this deep dive into developmental psychology bullshit a few weeks ago and still hasn’t shut up about how a stable pack bond is essential to the healthy maturation of a child’s psyche or whatever.

And, well. _Stable_ isn’t exactly how you’d describe your life. Not that it’s not rad and cool, because it’s absolutely the coolest, getting to strife with your Bro and drop sick beats and do pretty much whatever you want, whenever you want. But stable? No.

So maybe that desire to pack bond with him is the reason why you miss his next feint, why you stumble and your numb fingers lose their grip on your sword, why you fall to your knees as his sword comes down on you. You flinch, can’t hide it, can’t roll away fast enough, certain that this time, he’s actually gonna do it, Bro is _actually_ going to cut your head off.

The katana stops dead an inch away from your skin. You can hear yourself panting. It’s the only sound on the roof. Bro is as cool as he always is, and you can smell the disappointment in his scent.

He doesn’t say anything, just captchalogues his sword and heads back down. You kneel on the burning hot rooftop, sweat dripping down behind your pointed shades, and feel like the world is caving in. You’re shaking, you realize, and fist your hands in the fabric of your jeans to stop yourself.

You stand, make your way slowly down the stairs back to your apartment. You can smell Bro’s scent before you even reach the first landing, and there’s a hollow ache inside of your chest that you haven’t felt since you were a _really_ little kid.

You want Bro. You want him to snuggle you and scent you like you’re two years old again, to be smothered in that Alpha scent of leather and oil and smoke like a blanket of safety protecting you from the outside world. You are the least cool person on the planet. It is you.

But despite feeling like a useless needy dumbass, as soon as you get to the apartment, you make a beeline for Bro’s futon. He’s sitting there, already playing some game that’s probably crazy awesome and mad ironic. You can see the back of his hat poking up from behind the futon.

You creep around and crawl up onto the futon beside him, feeling small and ashamed. He doesn’t acknowledge you at all, fingers hitting buttons on the controller with a rapid staccato beat. You keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, unable to stop watching him.

You fucked up, you _know_ you fucked up but - but Bro is _right there,_ he’s two feet away from you, and your pathetic craving for his scent, his touch, actually feels like a physical _ache_ , the way your muscles feel sore after a particularly challenging strife.

It’s stupid. You’ve trained yourself out of these childish urges for affection and physical contact. Bro’s let you know, both by example and by flat-out telling you, that you’re too old for that shit. But for whatever reason you can’t control this feeling, can’t keep the Strider stoicism up any longer.

And like. Pack bonds are important, right? Rose said so, and sure, she talks a lot of bullshit, but you think you’ve heard about this stuff in school and health classes. So it’s probably true.

You scoot a little bit closer on the cushion and think to yourself that maybe, if you’re subtle about it, if you don’t _act_ like a clingy asshole, you can maybe manage to get close enough to get him to scent-mark you. Casually, but with your heart beating in your chest, because you fucking _need_ this, you need it so much, you lean your head forward, going to rub your cheek against the back of his hand. 

Bro actually _flashsteps_ away from you.

One instant he is beside you on the futon, his fingers moving rapidly mere inches from your ear, and the next he is halfway across the room, almost in the kitchen, standing now. His fingers keep hitting buttons on the controller, not even taking a pause in his game.

It’s such a clear rejection that you almost feel like you’ve been slapped in the face.

A lump forms in the back of your throat, and you scoot down off the futon, not looking at Bro, not even through your shades. You don’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t say anything to you, as you shamefully make your way to your room and close the door.

You feel like crying, but crying is for wimps and sissies, so you swallow hard and breathe through your nose and force it down. You’re already pathetic and useless, you’re not going to disappoint Bro further by going and _crying_ in your bedroom like a little kid just because you didn’t get scent-marked. How stupid would _that_ be?

Instead you gather up all the pillows and blankets in your room and wrap yourself up in them, sitting on your bed and mashing yourself into the corner of the wall. You put your head under the covers and sit in the darkness and feel bad for yourself, like a useless little kid.

That’s when you hear a ping from your computer, letting you know one of your friends is trying to contact you.

For a second, you contemplate ignoring it, but… you’re lonely. Bro won’t let you scent him right now _(and he’s right to,_ you think, _because you’re such a disappointment)_ , but your friends still want to talk to you. It’s not the same, they’re not _pack_ the way Bro is, but you like talking to them. They’re your friends.

So you leave your bed just long enough to scoot your desk close enough that you can type from within your huddled pile of blankets.

\--  ghostyTrickter [GT] started pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 17:07 --

GT: hey, dave, are you on?  
GT: everyone else is on, so i was thinking if everyone is up for it, i could open a chat room and we could all talk together!  
GT: okay, so rose and jade said yes, so i made a chat room. here’s the link: https://bullshit.link/413/  
GT: i really hope you’re on, it would be cool for all of us to talk at once!  
TG: whoa man i get that youre jonesing for my dick but this looks a little desperate dude  
TG: i know its hard to hold it in when youve got an eyeful of this hot bod  
TG: but i gotta let you down i dont swing that way  
GT: :p  
GT: just get in the chat room, you butt!

You snort, but click the link anyway.

\--  turntechGodhead [TG] joined the chatroom at 17:21 --

TG: did you miss me ladies  
GG: dave!! yay, i was hoping you were on!  
GG: isnt it cool that were all on at the same time? that like never happens!  
GT: yeah, even though dave really took his time getting his butt in here!  
TT: Welcome, Dave. It’s nice to see you.

You crack a smile. You really can’t help it.

TG: its called being fashionably late look it up egbert  
TG: making you all wait for my arrival  
TG: that way everyones paying attention when i make my grand entrance  
TG: rolling up to the chat like a hollywood celebrity in a black limo at a highly exclusive club  
TG: partys been going on for hours already but i dont show up until after midnight  
TG: bouncer at the door doesnt even have to look at the guest list just tips his hat respectfully and waves me inside  
GT: oh my god, i forgot how much you talk, lmao.  
GG: be nice, john!!  
GG: were all glad youre here, dave! :)  
GT: okay, sorry.  
TT: Your craving for validation is showing again, Dave.  
TT: You ought to be careful, you wouldn’t want us thinking you actually care about us, or something.  
GG: hee hee! we already know dave cares about us!  
TG: i want it on the record that this is blatant slander  
TG: i dont give a shit what anyone thinks  
TG: especially not you dorks  
TT: If it’s in writing, I believe it’s called libel.  
TT: Did you have a specific activity in mind, John, or were you just planning on absolute chaos?  
GT: idk i just wanted us all to have the chance to chat together!  
GT: we’re practically never all on at the same time, i thought it would be fun!  
TT: Ah. So absolute chaos it is, then.  
GT: actually, i kind of wanted to apologize?  
GG: for what?  
GT: i was kind of a huge dick last week to all of you and i wanted to say i’m sorry.  
GT: it turns out actually i was going through my first rut! and i might have been a little competitive because of that.  
GT: by the way, i’m an alpha now.  
GG: that’s so neat! :D  
TT: Congratulations on your presentation, John.  
TG: whoa jesus man already?  
TG: youre like ten dude  
GT: yeah, dad says early bloomers run in the family.

You… hadn’t really pegged John as an Alpha. His personality is pretty much the most obvious Beta stereotype you can think of; earnest and slow-to-anger and working really hard so that everyone in the pack - or in your case, the friend group - gets along and communicates with each other.

Honestly, if anyone is going to be an Alpha in your little gang, you’d expect it to be you. You’re tough, and way cooler and more dominant than you think either John or the girls could really pull off. Besides, Bro’s an Alpha, which means that from the standpoint of the genetic lottery you’ve got a decent chance of being an Alpha, too.

Sure, you still think you’re more likely to be a Beta, but John being an Alpha… it’s a surprise.

You chat a little longer with your friends, and just like they always do, they manage to cheer you up a bit. You talk until long past when the sun sets, and your cheeks ache from the force of your smile. But all good things must come to an end.

TT: Well, I hate to cut this party short, but my mother has experienced an uncharacteristic fit of parental concern.  
TT: She’s enforcing bedtime now.  
TT: I suppose, considering that it’s after midnight here and I do have school in the morning, she might have a point.  
TG: lame  
GG: oh gosh you should probably go to sleep rose!  
GT: ugh, yeah, dad told me like half an hour ago that i need to go to bed.  
GT: he’s gonna be pissed if he catches me still on the computer.  
TG: see this is why my bro is the coolest  
TG: he never makes me go to bed  
TG: no bedtime for me i can stay up playing video games or talking all night if i want to  
TG: you chumps have to deal with lame shit like bedtimes and family meals  
TG: jade and i are gonna stay up talking without you losers  
GG: actually dave, i should probably go make food!  
GG: weve been talking for hours and its been really fun!  
GG: but i didnt have lunch and im starving!  
GG: and so is bec!  
GG: so i am going to sign off too  
TG: aw man talk about lame  
TG: are you seriously all ditching me here  
GT: yep! sorry dude.  
TT: It has been a pleasure, everyone.  
TT: Good night.  
GT: night everyone!  
GG: good night!! sweet dreams, you two. :)  
TG: ugh whatever  
TG: bye dorks  
\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] left the chatroom at 23:14 --  
\-- ghostyTrickster [GT] left the chatroom at 23:14 --  
GG: okay i am going to leave too!  
GG: you should go to sleep too, dave, it’s really late for you.  
TG: no its not i stay up this late all the time  
TG: got all those late night jams  
TG: watching mad r rated shit on the tv  
GG: well i still think you should go to bed!  
TG: youre not my mom harley  
GG: XP  
GG: sleep well dave! whenever you do go to sleep i guess!  
TG: thanks  
TG: have a good dinner or whatever  
GG: thank you! i will talk to you later dave!  
GG: :)  
\-- gardenGnostic [GG] left the chatroom at 23:20 --

It is kind of getting late, and you are super comfortable in your little pile of pillows and blankets, and the lights are already off because you didn’t bother to turn them on when the sun went down. So you sigh, and turn off the computer, and snuggle down further, closing your eyes.

You just wish you didn't still have that awful longing ache in your chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where the fic starts to get really, unrelentingly awful. read and remember the tags, people.

You wake up feeling like dog shit.

Everything is too hot. It’s mid-October, and even here in Texas that means shit should start cooling off, but you feel like you’re burning up. Sweat is practically pouring off of you, and your hair is plastered to your forehead. The blankets closest to you are literally damp, which is just fucking gross.

You also _ache_ all over, like your body is one huge bruise. Your hips and the pit of your stomach are particularly awful, cramping up like a charley horse or that time you ate a spoiled taco and had the shits so bad you couldn’t leave the toilet for hours.

On top of that, you feel kinda dizzy and lightheaded. Which means you probably have the flu. Ugh.

Maybe you should just stay home today. You feel awful, you’re clearly sick with something, and the thought of leaving your bed almost makes you whine. For a second, you clutch your blankets and curl up tighter, even though you feel like you’re burning up.

But Bro’s filming today.

He’s been filming for his site all week, and you _hate_ being in the apartment when he does it. Sure, it’s kinda funny and ironic that he makes all this money off of dumb shit like puppets humping each other or whatever. And it’s not like the sex thing bothers you, Bro’s been making sex jokes around you since as long as you can remember, that’s cool, it’s fine. This puppet porn stuff just. Isn’t your thing. At all.

Not to mention sometimes he films _himself_ and like. Ew, dog. You never need to walk in on that shit again. He’s your _brother_.

You could stay holed up here in your bedroom, of course. But then the school is gonna call him in the middle of filming, and he’ll be pissed your skiving off interrupted him. And you could ask him now to call and excuse you, but it’s filming week. He won’t have started yet because it’s too early in the morning so the light’s not right for it, but you still don’t want to bother him while he’s preparing. Partially because you’ve got no idea what kind of preparation he’s doing, and like you said, you have already seen more than enough of your bro’s junk to last several lifetimes.

And also he’s probably still mad at you from yesterday, and you don’t want to look like a weak, needy little shit in front of him. At least, not more than you already have.

So you reluctantly pull yourself out of the weird pile of blankets and pillows in the corner of your bed. As soon as you do so, you feel your heart start to beat faster, pounding in your ears, and you have to dry off your suddenly sweaty palms on your boxer shorts. Jesus, it’s like leaving your bed gave you a panic attack. You swallow down the fear racing through your body and force your shaking limbs into clothing.

Your stomach is roiling too bad for you to even contemplate breakfast, so you skip it, although you down a bottle of AJ on your way out the door. Ugh, you still feel dizzy and lightheaded, almost trip getting into the elevator, and you can’t stop your hands from trembling or your breath from coming in sharp pants. You _hate_ this. Maybe you won’t even go to class at this point, maybe you’ll just go straight to the nurse’s office and hole up in there.

You stand on the sidewalk at the bus stop with a bunch of other kids, miserable as shit and periodically wiping your hands off on your shorts. The other kids keep shooting you weird looks, and it doesn’t help the mounting sense of anxiety growing in you

Eventually the bus comes and you all pile on. Normally you’d say hi to the driver, Miss Anne, but she’s busy handling a couple of kids who are being little assholes, so you just wave at her and make your way to the back of the bus.

Almost as soon as you make it to your seat, you draw your knees up to your chest, clasping your arms tight around your legs. You know you probably look stupid, like a little kid, but you feel awful. You feel - _exposed_ is the only word you can think of, like you’re standing on a stage for a talent show and every eye in the room is looking at you, only you forgot to wear pants today, like in some nightmare cliche. Everyone is staring at you, it feels like, or sniffing in your direction, and you just _know_ that they know how scared you are.

Striders aren’t supposed to get scared. Striders aren’t supposed to huddle in the fetal position and hyperventilate until black spots appear at the edge of their vision. Striders _definitely_ aren’t supposed to start whimpering under their breath ten minutes into their bus ride because of how freaked out and gross they feel. And knowing just how disappointed your Bro would be only makes you feel _worse_.

When the bus finally makes it to the school, you almost contemplate staying right where you are, leaving your sweaty, hyperventilating ass right here on the seat. Not that Miss Anne will let you. You don’t want to make shit inconvenient for her, she’s cool, so you force yourself upright and make your slow, painful way to the door, shuffling behind the kids in front of you.

You’re the last one off the bus. You nod stoically at Miss Anne as you pass, giving her an ironic little two-fingered salute, and head down the steps, trying not to let your trembling hold you up.

Miss Anne inhales deeply through her nose. Time seems to slow down as she sniffs you, and then before you have the chance to react she grabs your elbow.

Her hand is like a brand against your skin, and you can’t keep the gasping in any longer, shaking uncontrollably. You can’t decide whether the touch feels good or bad or maybe both at once.

“Oh Dave, sweetheart, you can’t go to school like that,” she says.

“I,” you say incoherently, like a dumbass. “What?” Her fingers are gentle on your elbow, but you are terrified of the feel of her gaze on you. You brain is screaming that you need to run, you need to hide, but there’s nowhere to run _to_.

“You’re in heat, hon,” Miss Anne says. She says some other stuff after that, stands and turns you so that both of her hands rest on your shoulders, but your brain doesn’t process any of the words.

_you’re in heat you’re in heat you’re in heat you’re in heat_

Suddenly the ache in your pelvis isn’t weird indigestion - it’s _hollowness_ where you need to have a dick inside you. The way your asscrack has been getting wet and warm isn’t just sweat, it’s _slick_. You can smell your own scent now, disgustingly heat-sweet, like syrup but soured with fear. The panic because people are staring, you can now recognize as an Omega’s instinctive need to avoid potentially violent Alphas by holing up in their nest.

 _Fuck_. Your _nest_. The pile of fucking _blankets_ you built yesterday, which you’d been terrified to leave this morning.

You need your Bro, your _pack_ , so fucking bad you want to scream.

You’re kind of out of it as Miss Anne leads you swiftly through the school, shaking and stumbling. Her hands run gently down your shoulders and back, and she murmurs to you, trying to soothe you. You feel every touch like a spark of fire.

She’s a Beta, and with your new heightened olfactory sense you can smell her pack on her, the milky scents of three pre-adolescent children and two adult scents, both crisp and sharp and Beta. She is a mother or an aunt or a nanny, and she would know how to care for you, she would see you through this heat. Her hands are strong and warm on your shoulders, she could protect you, could provide for you. Half of you instinctively says to give in to her, to let her have her way with you, which is why you follow her blindly through the halls.

But the other half of you screams that she is _not_ your pack, she’s not Bro, which means she is dangerous. She is a threat, a potential sexual aggressor, and you are a young Omega going through your first heat which means you are as vulnerable as you can possibly be right now. You need your pack here to protect you, you should break free of her because you cannot trust this woman, you have to find your pack.

You actually do try to break free at one point, jerk yourself out of her grasp and scramble away on weak, foal-like legs that nearly collapse under you. “Bro, Bro, Bro,” you croak out, and your scent has to be blaring your distress like an alarm bell, where is your pack, why isn’t he _here_ , you can’t smell him, why are you so far from him–

Miss Anne jerks you back towards her chest, almost crushes you against her body, and you struggle against her, screaming wordlessly, beating your fists on her collarbone and kicking your legs with all your might.

And then suddenly all the fight goes out of you and you slump, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. You tremble still, quivering in her grip, but otherwise you are limp. Your body has accepted that you belong to her, now. Whatever Miss Anne wants to do to you, you won’t even be _able_ to fight it.

You actually physically can’t pay attention to where you are or what’s going on - all you can focus on is the scent of Miss Anne, like wet stone, and the frantic beating of your own heart.

Miss Anne sets you down on some kind of cot-type thing and you hear her talking to someone you don’t recognize - you still can’t parse the words, aren’t even sure you want to. You roll onto your stomach, press your forehead against the strange, stiff fabric of the cot, and, still quivering, wait for her to _take_ you, like all your instincts say she will.

And then she fucking _leaves_.

You actually burst into tears.

It’s awful, it’s humiliating, and you hiccup as the tears stream down your cheeks and snot dribbles out of your nose, soaking into the cot. She didn’t _want_ you, and you’re terrified of her, of what she might do to you, but you also feel like you’ve been abandoned, rejected, and you’re so confused and hot and dizzy and everything is _wrong_.

You cry until the tears stop coming, whimper and shudder until even that is too much and you lie limply, exhausted, on the cot. At some point, a stranger’s scent comes near you and something is pressed against your lip. You open your mouth, unable to do anything else, and close your lips around it, sucking instinctively.

It’s a straw, and cool water fills your mouth, and at first you almost choke but then you’re gulping it down greedily, because you are so, _so_ thirsty. When you’re no longer sucking in anything but air, someone tugs the straw out of your mouth and you’re left alone again.

You drift. Black spots appear at the edge of your vision every now and then, as dizziness overwhelms you. You’re not really sure if you’re awake or asleep, and you shiver and whimper and _long_ for your Bro to be here, to take care of you. The person comes around with the straw two more times, and you suck the cup dry both times. You hear a door open and close a couple of times, distant voices that you can’t comprehend.

You don’t know how long you lie there, unable to do much more than twitch.

The door opens again.

You are on your feet and running before you consciously comprehend _anything_. You push past a tangle of some kind of fabric that blocks your way and literally fucking _slam_ yourself into the tall warm body in front of you, knocking the wind out of your chest as you do.

You fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt and bury your head in his tummy and inhale new leather and motor oil and menthol cigarettes.

“ _Bro_ ,” you keen, and fuck, you’re crying again, shaking, as his hand rests lightly against the top of your head.

Behind you, you hear an irate female voice say something sharp and angry, and Bro’s low, warm drawl replies.

“I had some fuckin’ business I had to attend to,” he says, his chest rumbling with a hint of a growl. “I came as soon as I could.”

The woman says something else, and his hand lifts from your head and you hear a rustling of paper. Then his hand descends onto your head again and you can’t help but keen.

“Come on, let’s go,” Bro says, and you whimper in relief as he leads you away.

Your pack is finally, _finally_ here. You’re safe now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra-long, extra-fucked up chapter! this is where the fic really earns its e rating
> 
> a note on omega physiology in this au: i got the idea for it from [this essay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299357/chapters/9803262) \- a male omega's rectum and vagina only _appear_ to share an opening, but actually are completely separate tracts. most of the time, the vagina is relaxed, and is completely closed off from the rectum (which keeps the vagina clean and clear of fecal matter, because ew). when in heat or aroused, a male omega's vagina swells, closing off the rectum and making the vagina accessible. also male omegas have an internal clit that can be stimulated easily from the inside of the vagina.
> 
> and yeah this chapter is almost as long as the other two chapters combined, enjoy my friends

You cling to Bro all the way to the car, your eyes shut tight against all the people who are staring at you. He opens the door to the passenger side, picks you up and deposits you on the seat inside as easily as if you were one of his puppets, and then goes to leave.

“No!” you shriek, clutching at his shirt, his arms, anything, _anything, you can’t let him leave, you can’t be alone again._

He forcibly removes your hands with his own, squeezing them so tight you actually yelp from the pain. “I gotta drive the fuckin’ car, kid, and I ain’t lettin’ you lie in my lap while I do,” he says.

Tears fall from your eyes again as he moves away from you, and you sob desperately. “Please, please, please, please,” you beg, frantically inhaling his scent and trying to figure out where he is, _please god, he can’t have abandoned you–_

His hand clamps down on your thigh from your left side, and you jerk at the suddenness of it. “Shut the fuck up,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, gulping, trying to swallow down the tears.

Bro starts the car. Within a few seconds you’re so terrified of how exposed and vulnerable you are, even _with_ your pack nearby, that you’re hyperventilating again.

You have to _hide_. Anyone could find you like this.

Bro didn’t bother to buckle you in, so you leave your seat and wedge yourself into the footwell under the glove compartment.

Bro grunts. “Surprised you fit in there, kid,” he says.

You only whimper and curl yourself up tighter, feeling the rumbling of the car engine and inhaling Bro’s scent with every breath to remind yourself that your pack is here, he’ll take care of you. You’re an idiot and you shouldn’t have left your apartment, your nest, should never have strayed so far from your pack, but he’s finally _here_.

You didn’t really think you could be more out of it than you already are, but your entire world somehow narrows to the rough fabric of the footwell against your cheek, the uncomfortably hard and cold metal contraptions underneath the passenger seat, which are currently digging into your knee, your Bro’s scent, and your own heartbeat. Forget about black spots in your vision - at this point you don’t even know if your eyes are open or squeezed shut, because sight is not one of the senses that’s working for you anymore.

As if to compensate for your inexplicable blindness, your skin is hypersensitive, every touch feeling like a live wire shooting electricity directly into your nerves. The rasp of your own shirt against your chest, the cool trickle of slick down your thigh, the damp cling of your soaked boxers against your ass - everything feels like an alarm bell, and you can’t help but pay attention to every little sensation.

Eventually you settle into a kind of fugue state, drifting again. You’re less anxious than you were before, because Bro is here, and his car smells like him almost as much as the futon does, and you’re not as exposed as you were. If Bro would just touch you, would scent mark you, or just put his hand on your head (hug you tight to his chest, rub his cheek against yours, wrap his huge arms around you and whisper to you that he’ll keep you safe) you would be perfectly content.

Of course the rumbling of the floor beneath you stops, and you hear the sound of Bro leaving, and you fucking panic again.

But it’s not long before he’s at your other side, standing over you, and you sigh in relief.

Bro’s voice cuts through the haze you’re drifting in. “Come on, kid, we’re here, get the fuck up.”

You. You can’t.

You can’t get up, you can’t leave your nest, this place that smells like him, and you whimper, trying to communicate this, and you curl up even tighter.

“Hell no, you’re not going through heat in my damn car, you’ve stunk it up enough already. Get the fuck out or I’ll make you.”

You can’t.

 _you can’t you can’t_ _you can’t you can’t you can’t_

Bro’s grabs the belt on the back of your shorts with one hand and you sigh in happiness as his knuckles graze across the bare skin of your lower back. _Contact_ , warm and there, and for an instant it feels so good.

Then he yanks you up by your ass, and you don’t yelp so much as shriek as he pulls you out of your nest. His other arm comes around underneath you to support your chest, so that your pose is somewhere in between a Looney Tunes character being flung out a saloon door and a kid getting their first swimming lesson. Even the wonderful, satisfying sensation of his _entire forearm_ holding you up isn’t enough to drown out the pure, unbridled terror that floods you as you leave the footwell.

You honestly don’t know how long you dangle there, out in the open, exposed to anyone who might fucking come along, screaming yourself hoarse in terror. It feels like hours to your freaked-out, exhausted brain.

Movement must happen, because the familiar, comforting scent of the apartment suddenly floods your nostrils. You stop screaming, fall limp again in Bro’s arms.

He carries you to your room, which smells even _better_ than just the apartment alone, and dumps you flat onto your bed. Immediately you bury your head in the folds of your blankets and crawl deep into the nest you made yesterday, until your whole body is completely wrapped up and covered.

For a minute, Bro stands behind you and then - then he turns to _leave._

That fear claws through you again, at the thought of being _alone_ , of not having your pack around you, and you spin dizzily on the spot, reaching out a grasping hand and gasping, “ _No_ , Bro, _please_ , stay, please, _please_ , stay.”

He is silent for a moment and you whimper, fighting your way free of the covers long enough and far enough to find purchase in the back of his shirt, your fingers tightening in the fabric. He _can’t_ leave you, he _can’t,_ he _won’t_ , he’s your _pack,_ you _need_ him, you need him to keep you _safe_.

“You want me to stay, huh?” he says.

“ _Yes_ ,” you practically fucking scream. _“Please_. Need you.”

Your sense of smell has grown so much stronger in the past few hours, and you are so familiar with your Bro’s scent, that you can actually smell the way it almost instantly sweetens with amusement.

“Well, all fucking right then,” he drawls, and turns, pushing you back onto your bed.

His hand on your shoulder is warm and wonderfully _there_ , and you hum in pleasure and follow his direction, scooting back into your nest and inviting him in with you. Bro follows up behind you, his body a solid presence in front of you. You reach out to him and hold his shirt with both hands.

Honestly, you could sit here like this, your back against the wall of your nest, with his hand on your shoulder and your fingers rubbing against his shirt, for the whole rest of your heat, and be perfectly content. You’d like him to scent mark you at some point, but this? This is perfect. You’re in your nest and your pack is here and the wild beast of terror that has been ripping your brain and body apart for the past small eternity is finally quiet.

“Uh-uh,” Bro chides, reaching both his hands up to yours and unhooking them from his shirt. You eagerly allow him to move them, enjoying the sensation of his calloused palms enclosed over your small knuckles, and sigh.

He puts both your hands over your head and runs his fingertips slowly down the lengths of your arms, to your armpits and then trails them down your sides. On any other day you’d be ticklish as hell, but this is your pack and you’re in heat and right now every touch from him feels like pure bliss served on a silver platter. You sigh again and feel your body relax into his touch, into the pillows and blankets.

Bro puts his hands on your hips, and pushes you to roll over onto your stomach. You do so, crossing your arms in front of you and resting your chin on them. His hands still hold your hips, fingers slipping up to play with the top edge of the fabric of your shorts.

“Good boy, Dave,” Bro croons, and slips his hands underneath you.

 _Wait a second_ , a part of you thinks, a little tiny red flag flashing in the back of your head.

And then, in one almost graceful gesture, he unbuckles your belt and slips your clothing down your thighs, boxers and all. The move is so practiced and casual it’s almost like he sits on your bed and pulls your pants off every day.

You turn to look over your shoulder, even though your vision _still_ isn’t working right, feeling dizzy and confused. “What-” you start to ask.

Bro snatches your hair with a punishing grip and forces your head down, pressing your face into the pillow beneath you.

“Shhh,” he says, free hand cupping the cheek of your bare ass. “Little Omega sluts shouldn’t ask questions.”

Your brain goes blank for a white-hot second. _What the fuck_ , you think.

You are suddenly supremely aware of Bro’s body behind you, the points where his knees bracket your legs, the warm, ephemeral heat he gives off, the heavy pressure of his hand holding your head down. Your body is limp beneath him, because the scent of him and your instincts are still saying that Bro is _pack_. Bro is _safe_.

His thick, rough-skinned fingers trail down the slippery cleft of your ass crack, prod gently at the puffy skin of your hole. “God, you slicked up real nice for me, huh, Davey?” he croons.

Cold fear grips your belly, entirely different from the wild panic that had consumed you all morning. _Oh my god,_ you think, _He’s going to fuck me._

You try to struggle against him, but your limbs are weak, your instincts keeping you pliant and lax for your pack. For your Alpha. You can do little more than squirm against the blankets.

“No,” you mutter, trying to shake your head but stymied by Bro’s grip on your hair. “No, fuck, don’t. Don’t.”

“Oh, Dave,” he says, voice sweet with false tenderness. “You wanted this. You _begged_ me to stay. You _asked_ for your big Alpha Bro to help you through your heat. I’m just delivering on my promise.”

The tip of one finger slips inside you, the gallons of fucking slick you’ve been producing easing the way so much that you could almost miss its presence, if it weren’t for the way Bro immediately starts rubbing the walls of your pussy from the inside.

And the worst fucking part of it all is that it still feels _good._ Hell, it feels _fantastic_. He zeroes in immediately on your internal clit, and every slow circle sends sparks running up your spine. Your body is keyed in to every fucking sensation right now, and your instincts keep telling you that having your pack touch you is pleasureable, and the weird aching hole in your stomach _throbs_ in anticipation of being filled.

If you weren’t so fucking nauseous at the thought that your _Bro_ is doing this to you, it’d be one of the most amazing experiences of your damn life.

And oh fuck, you’re getting hard.

Bro notices, because of _course_ he fucking notices, and chuckles. “You little slut,” he says fondly, more fondly than he’s ever said anything to you in your life. “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

He pushes a little further in and you can’t help the groan that escapes you at the feeling. With a horrible squelching sound, Bro draws his finger back, and then thrusts it all the way in. It slides in without a hitch, rubbing against your walls and causing you to jolt with pleasure as an arc of sensation races up your spine. Oh god, that’s your fucking prostate, isn’t it.

You have to lie there and fucking take it, unable to do much more than whimper and groan, as Bro plays mercilessly with your clit and prostate, switching back and forth between the two. He rubs small circles around your prostate for ages, until your clit is practically fucking crying out from neglect, and then immediately slides down to stimulate your clit until you want to scream, only to slip right back up to your prostate and do it all over again. Your dick presses uncomfortably against the mattress beneath you and even with Bro’s finger inside you, you feel _empty._

His other hand is still on the back of your head, holding you down. He’s doing all this with _one fucking finger._

He is playing with your prostate when your whole body seizes up and you come messily, dick spreading fluid across your belly and the sheet underneath you as you shudder and rock on Bro’s finger.

Bro laughs. “Well that was fast,” he says, rubbing your throbbing clit. “You really are gagging for it, aren’t you, Davey?”

He won’t stop rubbing your clit and fuck it feels so good fuck fuck fuck

You come again, seconds after your last orgasm, dry this time, feeling horrible and wrong and dirty.

“Needy slut,” Bro says.

Then a second finger enters you, and it, too, slides in with little difficulty. You almost wish it did burn, that it was painful or jerky or _something_ , but instead it feels wonderful. 

"Damn, you're slick, Davey," Bro says, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you. "Look at that. I don't even need to prep you hardly at all."

His hands leave you, then, both of them, and you whimper at the loss. Then you hate yourself for whimpering, remind yourself that you don't want this. 

Behind you, you hear a rustle of clothing, the jingle of a belt buckle. A strip of leather taps lightly on your ass, his belt brushing against you as he takes it off.

His hands find their way to your hips, and the warm, sturdy grip feels unfairly good. You sigh, relax, lean into the touch, can't fucking help yourself or your instincts, even though you know what's coming. The scent of him is all around you, that cigarette smoke and new leather that are so familiar, but now there is an added, unfamiliar musk, ripe and thick.

"That's it, Davey," he croons, strokes his thumb against your hip. "Good boy."

You shudder at the praise, which sends tingles of pleasure through your body, and fuck, you didn't know you had a praise kink and this is _absolutely_ not the way you wanted to find out. 

The only part of your mind that is free of the almost drugged trance your heat has induced in you is terrified. You fight for control of yourself, your body, try to plead one last time. 

"No, Bro," you whimper. "Stop, please don't…"

Bro's fingers clench on your hips and you gasp. "You really want me to stop?" he hisses, low and threatening. "You really want me to stand up right now and leave you here all alone?"

Your heart leaps into your throat and you try to say of course you want him to leave, you don't want to have sex with your Bro. 

But… his hands feel so good on your body, thumbs still rubbing tight circles over your hipbones. And the thought of being alone through this - of your pack rejecting you - is unbearable. Tears actually fill your eyes at the very suggestion. 

"Yeah," Bro says. "That's what I thought."

Then you feel the blunt, unrelenting pressure of his dick at your entrance.

Bro presses in slowly, but steadily, not stopping to let you get used to the massive intrusion. The worst thing is, you don’t actually need him to. Your slick lubricates the way so well that there’s only the enormous feeling of being stretched around his cock - but no pain. When he finally bottoms out, his hips pressed to your ass, you sigh with pleasure.

You’re hard again, your stupid dick flopping around beneath you, and Bro stills, panting, above you. He’s clutching your hips so tight he’ll probably leave bruises, but to your heat-addled mind it just feels so good.

Which is the worst part of the whole thing. The fact that it feels _good._

“Fuck, Dave,” Bro groans, leaning over you. You shudder as his chest touches your back, his arms moving to bracket your shoulders. You’re both still wearing your shirts but the full weight of him across your body is incredible.

“Damn,” he says, and one hand slips underneath you, to grasp your aching dick. “The things you do to me, Dave.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and your pillowcase is wet with snot and tears and drool. It feels so good. It feels so wrong.

Then he starts moving, and with each thrust he’s pounding your prostate, glancing roughly over the sensitive wall of your clit. You cry out at the sensation, the pleasure building, his hand on your dick matching his rhythm in your ass.

His knot swells at the base of his dick, and you actually shriek the first time he pushes it past the ring of your hole. There’s legitimate pain for a second, but it’s almost immediately superseded by overwhelming pleasure, as even only half-inflated, it stimulates your clit _perfectly_.

Everything is so good and it’s too much and you feel yourself shaking and you’re so _fucking close_

Bro’s teeth clench down on the side of your neck, over your swollen mating gland.

Your orgasm is so intense you black out, the overwhelming rush of pleasure and hormones taking you to a peak you’ve never experienced before. Even after you come to, you drift in an unfocused haze for a solid minute, barely even feeling your Bro as he continues to pound away at you.

His knot is making it more difficult for him to move, and he starts thrusting more shallowly, really only jerking his hips in small circles against your ass. The bite on your neck stings, and you can smell him so clearly, a specificity of emotion you've never scented from anyone else before - arousal and triumph and vicious pleasure, all wrapped up with a undercurrent of cruel amusement. 

Bro stills, knot swelling shut, tying you together, and he groans, empties himself inside you.

As you feel his semen fill you, sloshing around inside your cunt, you think to yourself, _He bonded me_. Bro's bite mark throbs, as if in reminder of that newly-formed connection. You can smell the self-satisfaction coming off your Bro as he lays down in the nest beside you, draws you tight to his chest.

Bro’s arms around you are huge and warm and muscular. He licks soothingly at your neck, a deep Alpha growl of possessiveness rumbling from the back of his throat. You shudder at the sound, and he lifts his head, sniffs the skin near the back of your ear. Then he leans a bit further forward, rubs his face against your tear-stained cheek, scent-marking you with that heavy Alpha musk like you’ve been craving since yesterday.

It’s everything you wanted. It’s exactly what you asked for.

The fact that it comes with your Bro’s dick knotted up in your ass is the only thing marring this moment.

And really, maybe Bro was right, you think to yourself, as you fall asleep in his arms. Maybe, deep down, you wanted that part, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! if you like this, keep an eye on this series, i plan to write more fics in this AU, mostly dealing with the aftermath of what happens here. i have a lot of little ideas and snippets rolling around in my head.
> 
> also, thank you for your kind responses! i was really nervous about posting this fic, and it was really nice to get support from you!


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